Chapter 64 Taylor
Taylor
Taylor knocks on the glass of Turned Pages, the bookstore.
The sign reads Open, but the door is locked.
It feels fitting; everything in her life is completely backward, after all.
Maybe she shouldn’t even bother with the shop anymore, but after she sat long enough on the curb to regain her breath and steady herself, she got up and then approached the door like it was the logical thing to do.
Because, fuck, what else can she do right now?
There’s movement inside; a white-haired man slowly comes to the entrance. A bell jangles as the door groans open.
“Sorry; it’s a sticky door. Can I help you?” he croaks.
“Hi,” she says, with a shaky breath. She’s about two seconds away from losing it.
Who is she kidding about logical things?
She has no idea what is what. “I’m Taylor.
Jerry’s friend.” Jerry’s friend doesn’t exactly roll off her tongue very easily, but she keeps going.
“Jerry dropped off some really old books yesterday, and you asked him to come by?”
Recognition lights up the man’s eyes. “Oh, yes.”
“Well, he couldn’t make it, so I’m here for him. The books came from the both of us.”
“Come on in.”
She follows him as he carefully descends the stairs. The musty smell of books fills the space like a lit candle.
“The name’s Nicholas,” he says. “Do you want to look around, Taylor, or have a seat? I need to take care of something in the back, and then I’ll be with you shortly.”
“Sure, yeah.”
He shuffles off, leaving Taylor alone. She reverts to her default survival mode, noting the egress routes. It’s almost comforting to complete this surveillance—to have something to do. But then it’s done, and she’s surrounded once more with her confusing reality.
In a daze, she takes in the collection of old books that surround her.
Stories. That’s what her mom was—a story. A fictional story. Taylor didn’t know her, not really.
Tears spring unexpectedly to her eyes, and she rummages through her purse for a tissue.
Her fingers brush against the phoenix mask; Liam gave her the one he’d stuffed in the couch, as it got too crinkled, and they had extras.
Maybe you can repurpose those feathers, sew them on a jacket or something, he’d said.
Nicholas’s voice filters from the back space; is he on the phone?
What Liam did was a kind gesture, but she doesn’t know if she can trust him—if she can trust any of them. Jerry knew she was a nurse. The Knox knew.
Who screamed? Was someone in the fourth-floor window, or were my eyes playing tricks on me?
Why didn’t my dad tell me the truth?
Who was my mom?
Nicholas returns, unfolds a cloth on the counter, and then momentarily disappears.
She hears a faucet running, and this time when he comes back, he has a book in his hands.
He places it gently down on the cloth. It’s smaller than a typical book, more like the size of a diary, with a fragile-looking leather cover.
“Come, Taylor,” he says. “I want to show you the book your friend brought me. It’s…unique.”
“Unique?” she repeats.
“Unbelievably so.”
Her stomach flutters. Unique must mean valuable. Maybe Jerry was right about this old stuff.
“Do you know Latin?” Nicholas asks, and she shakes her head. He points to the book cover. “This title, Opii Pericula, is Latin for Dangers of Opium.”
“Dangers of Opium,” she repeats. It’s the second time today the drug’s come up; that feels somehow important.
“The author is Edgar Rolo Butterworth, which happens to be an anagram of a person named Robert Walter Thurgood. And look here”—he flips forward to the dedication—“ ‘Matri meae causis manifestis,’ meaning, ‘To My Mother, for obvious reasons.’ ”
“Huh.” Taylor is flummoxed. Why is he telling me this?
Nicholas must see the confusion in her eyes. He gently closes the cover. “I’m sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself.”
The door chime rings, and Taylor turns to see a pretty, fortyish-year-old woman in a tan trench coat flouncing down the stairs.
“Nicholas, thank you for calling. I got here as soon as I could.” She turns to Taylor, sticking out her hand. “Hello. My name is Rachel.”
Taylor hesitantly takes her hand. Rachel’s not smiling, and Taylor doesn’t get the warmest vibe from her. Who is she? Maybe a co-owner of the bookstore? “I’m Taylor.”
“You work at the Knox, Taylor?” Rachel asks.
“Yes,” Taylor replies, and then instantly feels guarded. Should she be admitting she works at the Knox, or is that violating her confidentiality agreement? Truth be told, she didn’t really read that thing. Jerry clearly did, though.
“And this book was found in the basement, during a renovation project? Is that right?”
Taylor slowly nods; it’s not like she was the one who divulged this information—Jerry did—so she figures there’s no harm in confirming it.
“And what do you do there?”
It’s a simple question, but Taylor suddenly feels overwhelmed, Aunt Gigi’s revelation about her mom resurfacing.
As she hesitates, Rachel says, “Relax. This conversation stays here.”
But Taylor just shakes her head, trying to push down the emotions now rising in her. She can’t trust herself to speak.
Rachel and Nicholas exchange a glance.
“I’ll go put the teakettle on,” Nicholas says. He retreats to the back of the store.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be so abrupt. You’ll have to forgive me; it’s been a long few months,” Rachel says. She’s clearly attributing Taylor’s reticence as a reaction to her demeanor. “My friend got involved at the Knox, and now she’s missing.”
Taylor clears her throat. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she manages to respond. But she’s still in her own head.
“I was hoping you could help,” Rachel tries again, wringing her hands.
“I’ve only just started working there—last week was my first week—so I’m not sure how much help I can be to you.”
Rachel’s shoulders collapse. “That’s a shame. I was hoping you might have known her. But maybe you know people who do?”
“I don’t know. People aren’t that talkative. I’m also just a waitress, so…”
“I see.”
Taylor’s eyes flicker to the book. She’s curious—and wants to distract herself. “I’m not trying to be rude, but what does this have to do with that book?”
“My friend was searching for proof that she was related to the Knox. Well, to be precise, she was searching for a ‘schedule of beneficiaries’ naming her ancestor as heir to the Knox realty trust. She never found it. But this book here may be able to prove Vivian’s lineage, after all.”
Taylor feels like a ton of bricks has just dropped out of the sky and fallen on her. “I’m sorry…. You said her name is Vivian?”
“Yes. Vivian Lawrence.”
Taylor swallows. There’s a pounding in her head. She presses against the desk. “I…I see.”
Rachel’s eyes narrow. “Do you know her? Did you hear something?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t kn— I haven’t heard anything about a Vivian Lawrence at the Knox.” This, at least, is true. Meanwhile, she feels like she’s clawing out from beneath the bricks.
Vivian is somehow related to the Knox?
“So, what happened to her?” she manages to ask.
“She was dating someone at the Knox, a man named Peter.”
It takes all her resolve for Taylor to stay still, expressionless.
Peter? Peter was Vivian’s boyfriend?
“And like I said, Vivian was looking for confirmation that she was a descendant of the Knox, and one night when she was there, she was acting strange, texting to ask me questions about a mutual friend of ours, Xavier. Do you know a Xavier?”
“No, I don’t.” Taylor hears the words coming out of her mouth, but it’s like someone else is saying them.
Peter was Vivian’s boyfriend. Of course he was.
Taylor’s suddenly hit with the nauseous realization of how interconnected it all is, and, at the same time, the embarrassingly wide divide.
The truth so plain to see, like a default font: Men like Peter date Vivians, not Taylors.
“Anyway, that night, at the Knox, she fell down the stairs.”
Vivian Lawrence, age forty-four, unwitnessed fall down a flight of stairs at a cocktail party.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Taylor mumbles, when she realizes Rachel is waiting for a response.
“Yes, she had this compulsive thing where she always had to straighten any wall hanging that was crooked, and apparently there was an uneven piece of artwork at the top of the stairs. And when she went to straighten it, she lost her balance, and…” Rachel spreads her hands.
But it was an unwitnessed fall, Taylor wants to correct Rachel, snapping to with this detail. At least, that’s what Taylor was told by the paramedics.
Rachel continues. “And the fall caused a traumatic brain injury. She was a patient at Mass General. But then, she disappeared.”
“What do you mean, ‘she disappeared’?”
“Someone—a ‘medical power of attorney’ ”—she uses air quotes here—“moved her to another location. And we have no idea where she is. Or who moved her.”
She was moved to an undisclosed location, Aunt Gigi’s voice rings in Taylor’s ear.
“I didn’t even know she had a medical power of attorney. And the only thing I can think is that someone from the Knox moved her. That they were threatened by her family link. Maybe they forged a medical power of attorney. They’re powerful, right?”
Taylor nods, unsure how else to answer. They are powerful. And she is—she is not. She’s as far from the Knox and their glittering world as she’s ever been.
“I went by there, to the Knox, and spoke to a beefy fellow. He looked like a bouncer at a nightclub and acted like one, too. He barely let me through the door. Just pointed to the top of the stairs and told me the story of what happened.”
Jerry. She must mean Jerry. Taylor glances in the direction of Nicholas, to see if he recognizes the description of Jerry, but he’s still in the back, fixing the tea.
“And funny enough,” Rachel continues, “that mutual friend of ours, Xavier? He’s also gone missing. He mailed me a letter, saying he was sorry—but I don’t know what he is ‘sorry’ for—and now he’s AWOL. So something is not right. And I’m worried.”
“So you don’t know where Vivian is,” Taylor says.
She becomes hyperaware of how the shop is below street level. She is below street level. Just as well, really. She doesn’t belong upstairs. Neither did her mom—they were both deluded from the start.
“No, I don’t. I have no idea. Well, ‘she’ ”—Rachel uses air quotes again—“sent me an email a couple of weeks ago, but I don’t believe it’s from her. I think someone wrote it from her phone.”
“Oh?” The walls of the bookstore begin slowly pressing in.
“She said she was in Florida. She never goes to Florida; she doesn’t like the humidity and heat there.
And she asked me where Xavier is…which felt like the real reason for the email.
Something fishy is going on…. When I call, it goes to her voicemail.
I went to the police, but they won’t help.
They said, ‘It’s not a crime for a medical power of attorney to exercise health care decisions for someone who is incapacitated.
’ And then I circled back to the police, once I got her email.
And the moment I mentioned the Knox, they just instantly blew me off.
I wouldn’t be surprised if the Knox has the police department in their pocket,” Rachel seethes.
“Oh my God.” Taylor is trying to maintain normal appearances, but she’s finding it increasingly difficult to breathe.
“I know. It sounds crazy, right? Maybe you can help.” Rachel smiles somewhat meekly at Taylor. “You have helped, already. Thanks to you and your friend, we at least now have the book, with the proof of ancestry that Vivian was searching for.”
“ ‘The proof of ancestry’?” Taylor says, grabbing at a random phrase. She briefly closes her eyes, hoping that will help, but it only amplifies the claustrophobia.
Rachel pauses. “Yes. Although it’s…rather complicated.”
Nicholas returns with three steaming mugs of tea. He places them on a small table on the opposite side of the room. “Let’s drink these over here, away from the book,” he says.
“I…I gotta go,” Taylor says. She can’t leave this store fast enough. She shoves past Rachel, runs up the stairs, and spills through the door onto the street. She’s gasping for air.
It’s only when she’s a few blocks away, in the middle of the public garden, surrounded by weeping willow trees and large swathes of sky, that she feels like there’s finally a sufficient supply of air.
But though her breathing slows, her mind does not.